


Little Butterfly

by Laylah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Conquest, F/F, Fantasy, Gangbang, Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: Her captors march Zabete up to the head of the table to face the occupant of her father's place: a broad-shouldered, muscular woman with ragged black hair, chalky white skin, and blue lines inked across her face. She speaks to the others in a tone of amusement, and the answers they give her sound more like friendly teasing than like subordinates reporting to their leader."What do you want with me?" Zabete demands. Her voice shakes.The woman smiles with a slow satisfaction that makes her look like a giant cat eyeing its prey. "Such pretty fluttering silks, and so delicate. What's your name, little butterfly?"
Relationships: Barbarian Warlord/Conquered Princess, Female Barbarian Warriors/Conquered Princess
Comments: 12
Kudos: 149
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside)





	Little Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ba_lailah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/gifts).



The eunuchs are the last line of defense for the women’s quarters, and they fail. 

Zabete has been watching the attack since the first plumes of smoke went up at the edges of the castle town—the castle itself is stone, so an occasional fire is nothing to worry about, but it kept getting bigger instead of being doused, and eventually close enough that she could see the strangers in the streets, warriors in studded leathers and strange helms, riding dauntless horses who bucked at neither the flame nor the screams of dying townsmen. The warriors bent heavy bows and swung bladed spears from horseback, and the single company of swordsmen left at the castle couldn't stop them.

The door to the women's quarters rattles and then bangs open. Tristes, Father's newest wife, screams and swoons. The serving girls shrink back, when it should be their duty to put themselves between their mistresses and the attackers, to die in the attempt to save the virtue of their betters. Zabete clenches her fists to hide how her hands shake.

Two of the invaders duck through the door and look around the room. They're tall, terrifyingly broad in their armor, completely alien behind their painted helms. One of them still has blood dripping from the blade of his spear.

One of them speaks, and the most shocking thing isn't the guttural plains tongue but the alto timbre of the voice. Is there a _woman_ among the barbarians? What kind of unnatural beast of a woman would become a warrior?

The other replies, her voice no deeper than her companion's. Zabete stares at them. They seem unreal.

The first one looks at her, through a helm painted with a grinning demon face. Zabete lifts her chin and tries to project more confidence than she feels. Her mother used to be able to terrify the castle staff with a glance. "You can see we are no fighters," she says, almost steadily. "We are no threat and we are of no use to you."

The invaders look at each other and trade a few quick words. "They stay here," one says to her. "You come meet our lord."

Zabete shakes her head, trying to think of an argument, an excuse they might listen to. "Tristes is the lady of the castle, she—"

"No," the warrior says. Her hand lashes out and captures Zabete's wrist, her grip not painful but firm and hot and daunting. "You. Now."

She won't let them see her lose her composure. They don't deserve that. She nods, and the warrior leads her out of the room as one of the serving girls goes to start fussing over Tristes. The eunuchs' bodies are still where they fell out on the landing. A little waterfall of blood spills down the stairs. The air stinks of blood and filth.

Zabete wonders where her father is as she makes her way down the stairs. He and his best men were called up to fight in the emperor's autumn campaign, and they must be days' ride away; when the news reaches him, will he have the time to hurry back here and defeat the barbarians before they trade her away into distant slavery? He hasn't had much time for her since she stopped being a little girl and became a young woman, but she remembers those times fondly. She was his first child. Surely he would still care enough to intervene on her behalf even now that he has sons.

The invaders bring her to the dining room, where more of their number lounge on the cushions, passing bottles of wine up and down the low table. Some of them have shed pieces of their armor, and beneath their demon helms is not a single bearded face. Are they _all_ women?

Her captors march Zabete up to the head of the table to face the occupant of her father's place: a broad-shouldered, muscular woman with ragged black hair, chalky white skin, and blue lines inked across her face. She speaks to the others in a tone of amusement, and the answers they give her sound more like friendly teasing than like subordinates reporting to their leader.

"What do you want with me?" Zabete demands. Her voice shakes.

The woman smiles with a slow satisfaction that makes her look like a giant cat eyeing its prey. "Such pretty fluttering silks, and so delicate. What's your name, little butterfly?"

Zabete's cheeks heat. Yes, the saffron shades she prefers are an indulgence, and her robes must seem delicate and strange to someone used to ragged leather, but she won't be mocked so. "I do not give my name to _beasts_ who overrun my home."

The barbarian woman laughs, making Zabete's blood burn even hotter. "Oh, and spirit to match that fiery color! You'd be wasted in the harem of one of these bloodless little lords. I should take you for mine."

" _I'd rather die_ ," Zabete snaps.

The conversations around the table stop. The beastly, violent warriors stare at her, then at their leader. The leader studies Zabete with chill, pale blue eyes. Then she turns to her left and holds out a hand to the nearest warrior, clearly demanding something. What she gets is a small, dark bottle, which she hefts in her hand and then tosses to Zabete with a casual flick of her wrist.

"I assume you don't have your heart set on being gutted," she says. "Go ahead."

Zabete stares at her, then down at the bottle of poison in her hands. Is it a bluff? Is she supposed to apologize, to beg to be a slave instead? What humiliations would they heap on her once they had her enslaved? Would it be _worth_ continuing to live when she had so thoroughly thrown her honor away?

She won't flinch. If this is the end she has to meet, so be it.

It feels as though every filthy creature in the room is watching as Zabete opens the bottle. She tips it up and drinks the contents as fast as she can—but instead of the bitterness she fears, it tastes almost like flowers, and goes down easily, to warm her belly like the best new year's wine. She flings the empty bottle away and glares at the barbarians' leader, determined to hold onto her pride as long as she can before the end.

"Mother of fire, what a fierce little butterfly," the leader says. "It would have been a waste to kill you."

Zabete can barely breathe. Her skin is heating up all over, like a fever, like a blush that spreads from her cheeks to the rest of her body. "You mean—"

"Sweetmeadow's Embrace isn't fatal." The barbarian's smile reminds Zabete of nothing so much as a hungry dog. "Even if you drink the whole bottle at once."

For a moment Zabete's knees threaten to buckle as relief floods her limbs; she's dizzy and grateful for the reprieve before she remembers herself enough to be angry at the deception. She shouldn't _want_ the reprieve! Dying with honor would leave her in possession of her virtue, which is clearly better than these creatures have in mind.

"You mock your defenseless captives, then? This is how you show your _bravery_ , by tormenting the defeated? You think—aah!"

The warriors on either side of her yank her down and her knees hit the floor hard enough to send a jolt of pain up through her, briefly distracting from the rising warmth.

"Don't be in such a hurry to exhaust that wicked tongue; we'll have a use for it later." The look on the woman's face, amused and hungry, makes Zabete feel more vulnerable than the hands holding her down. Her heart is beating too fast and her nipples are stiffening beneath her robes, and the more she tries to ignore that the more she's aware of how wrong it is. "Now, some introductions! I am Aeafbran, First Spear of the Daughters of Flame." She gestures at the other warriors as if to indicate that they are the Daughters of Flame; Zabete tries to hold still and not squirm. "You, little butterfly, will address me as Radiance until you earn the right to be more familiar. Is that clear?"

The sharpness of her tone shouldn't be enough to raise goosebumps all along Zabete's arms. "It's clear."

Aeafbran raises one sharp eyebrow and says nothing, but the whole room is watching. 

"It's clear, Radiance," Zabete corrects herself, and the humiliation of cooperating makes something twinge between her legs. It's an appalling affront for this woman to claim the divine title of the emperor, but she's beginning to realize how little she can really fight.

"Better," Aeafbran says. She gestures and her warriors let go of Zabete's arms. "Now come here."

For a moment Zabete considers rising to her feet, wondering if the barbarians would even recognize the insult in it. But her head is spinning, and she tells herself that being unsteady on her feet is reason enough not to rise, to stay on her knees and shuffle toward Aeafbran with her eyes cast down. One of the other women mutters something that she can't understand, but that has the leering tone of a guardsman watching a pretty slave. Her face grows hotter.

"An excellent suggestion," Aeafbran says. "Crawl, little butterfly. Let us see that pretty backside sway."

Zabete trembles with fury, and the twinge between her legs happens again, strong enough to be almost painful. She's a princess! Even as a prisoner she deserves more dignity than this. But these wicked creatures have no honor and would make a plaything of her—and as she bends forward to obey, heat washes across her skin again to settle as a steady pulse between her thighs.

There's more crude encouragement from the barbarians as she crawls forward, comments and whistles and animal howls. One of them slaps her flank as she passes, as if urging on a stubborn horse, prompting a flinch and a flood of wetness between her legs. She hates every last one of them and every tender spot on her body aches for touch.

"The antidote," she pleads as she reaches Aeafbran at the head of the table. "Please, Radiance, I beg you for the antidote to this poison." Once she's holding still it's a struggle not to reach up under her robes and try to ease the molten need beating in her blood. The idea is horrifying but she craves touch so badly her hands tremble.

"The only antidote is time," Aeafbran says. She reaches out and pushes three fingers into Zabete's mouth, which is grotesque, but the roughness of her skin against Zabete's tongue is dizzying. "Though giving in to the urges you're feeling will make the time pass much more pleasantly."

Zabete glares up at her and nearly chokes when Aeafbran pets her tongue. It shouldn't feel good. This is appalling. But her body hums in response to every too-intimate little moment. Do they want to make sport of her by watching her squirm? She can see a dagger at Aeafbran's belt. If she moved fast enough, could she reach it before she was stopped? Can she ignore the way the damnable woman is making her swoon for that long?

Aeafbran's other hand snakes between her arms, under her body, and flicks at a nipple. Zabete yelps, her clit throbbing, and drool runs from the corner of her mouth. "That's right, don't hold back. Let's hear you struggling with your pride."

She keeps teasing at Zabete's nipples, sometimes gentle strokes, sometimes sharp flicks and twists. Zabete can't think, can barely hold herself up on her trembling limbs. Everything between her legs _hurts_ with need and she's sobbing around Aeafbran's fingers as those casually demanding touches make it worse. Her teeth scrape Aeafbran's knuckles—there's no real force behind the gesture, only a plea for the woman to stop, or—or—

"You need something else, little prize?" Aeafbran asks. One of her warriors says something in their own tongue from behind Zabete, and Aeafbran laughs. "Is that right? Your cunt's so needy you've soaked right through your silks? This I have to see." She releases Zabete's mouth but then pulls Zabete roughly across her lap, face down, like a wayward child in need of discipline.

"Stop," Zabete slurs as Aeafbran squeezes one of her buttocks, but it's a muffled plea and her traitorous body is arching toward the crude touch.

Aeafbran's rough fingers stroke the cleft of her buttocks and push between her legs, so close to where she feels herself melting. "Sopping wet," Aeafbran says with awful satisfaction. She strokes again, so close but not quite where Zabete's body craves it, and Zabete squirms toward her touch. Aeafbran's other hand closes on her nape to hold her down and she whines. "This sweet young body so full of pent-up desire—fortunate we raided here, hmm?"

Zabete bites her lip, refusing to answer. She wishes the ground would open up and swallow her. She wishes Aeafbran would follow through on the threats those rough hands are making. She wishes she could strangle that desire.

She feels her robes pulled up by rough handfuls and tries to kick in protest, but her movements are weak and uncoordinated. Aeafbran's hand dives between her bared thighs and touches her flesh and she trembles—and the barbarian's fingers push into her and she howls, her back arching desperately. It's exactly what her body craves. It's utterly unacceptable that she would allow herself to be despoiled so. Aeafbran's fingers flex and slide deeper, filling her up in a way she's never imagined. The sensations are so strange, pressure and weight inside where she's never been touched, and she's struggling to hold still.

"Perfect," Aeafbran growls. "Now let's hear you sing." She twists her hand so her fingertips drag against strange tender places inside and presses her thumb against the swollen ache of Zabete's clit. The first time she thrusts is like she's struck a flint in dry tinder and lit all of Zabete's body aflame. Zabete screams, shaking apart in this stranger's lap, her whole body thrumming with unfamiliar pleasure.

It goes on for long, desperate moments, colors blooming behind her closed eyes and her breath coming only in gasps between one tremor and the next, and Aeafbran pushes her through it with that implacable touch. Through it and _past_ , continuing to stroke her after that violent climax subsides into a hot and tender ache. The poison still flows in her veins and her body still trembles for it, slickness running down her thighs and the thrust of Aeafbran's hand producing obscene wet sounds against her flesh.

She's more aware of the others watching now, and where she would have expected contempt on their faces instead she sees hunger. They want this, want _her_ , and it makes her skin prickle with renewed hunger to see it. This is wrong. These feelings aren't hers—it's the poison—but she can't push them away, instead finds herself rocking back into Aeafbran's touch as tension builds in her limbs again. Perhaps a second climax would be enough to purge this terrible need from her body–

But Aeafbran stops before she can reach that relief. "No!" Zabete cries, and then bites her tongue for betraying her.

Aeafbran smacks her thigh and laughs. "You'd have me do all the work while you enjoy it? You have been spoiled, little butterfly. No, you don't get another come until you've earned it. Go visit your guests like a good hostess and make them feel welcome."

"I can't—what do I even _do_?" Zabete protests. She feels terribly, achingly empty where Aeafbran's fingers have left her. "I don't speak your tongue, I—"

"Speaking's not what you'll need to do with your tongue," Aeafbran says. "Go on. They'll show you." She gives Zabete a shove in the direction of the nearest warrior and Zabete, on trembling hands and knees, goes.

They show her, rough hands pulling her head down between powerful thighs to make use of her mouth. They strip her the rest of the way out of her robes, teasing her stiff nipples, pinching the soft flesh of her thighs. They make her squirm and sob and climax again, shoving her from one heartless barbarian to the next so they can each demand her surrender again. One of them shows her how to fold up her fingers neatly so that her whole hand will fit into the wet heat of the woman's—the woman's cunt, and then rides her hand to a climax intense enough to trap her wrist in the fierceness of it. Another takes the necklace of amber beads from around her neck and puts the beads inside her, first in her cunt and then once they're slick up her ass, a strange, foreign pressure they won't let her try to remove. Still another rolls Zabete onto her back and has comrades hold her legs so she can't kick or struggle when the vicious creature spanks her exposed cunt until that, too, makes her climax.

They show her no mercy, demanding that she serve them all while they lay claim to her body with a host of intimate aggressions. And through it all the poison yet courses through her veins, making her body welcome each violation, her thighs slick and her limbs trembling. 

When the debauchery finally winds to a close, Zabete is exhausted, unsure how long they've been passing her around. The lips of her cunt are sore and swollen. The string of beads still hangs down, protruding from her ass. Her jaw aches from all the time she's spent licking these warriors to climax and her face is sticky with their half-dried fluids. But her mind is clearing, no longer hazy with the desperate need to be used again. She can lie still for a moment and try to catch her breath.

Aeafbran steps through the chaos as though she's picking her way through a battlefield, and when she reaches Zabete she reaches down and hauls her up by one arm until Zabete gets her feet under her. "Come, we're done here. Show me to the lord's chambers. I would rest."

"You would—" Zabete tries to protest, her voice thick in her throat. She realizes the futility in time for Aeafbran to do no more than raise an eyebrow. "Yes, Radiance."

"Lead the way," Aeafbran says.

So Zabete does: still naked, sticky, and uncomfortably filled, she climbs the tower stairs to her father's chambers with an invader close behind. The furnishings there are the finest in the castle, the wide bed and the carved armoires, the masterful paintings on the walls, and she wonders if Aeafbran can even tell.

"Nice," is all Aeafbran says. She unbuckles her sword belt and hangs it at one corner of the bed. Then she turns back to Zabete and says, "Bend over."

"What?" Zabete takes a step back in alarm. She's been cooperating, more even than she meant to; surely she's done nothing _now_ to merit punishment.

Instead of explaining Aeafbran simply grabs her, turning her around to face the wall, and bends her forward until she has to catch herself with her hands to avoid hitting her head. A booted foot kicks her ankles apart.

"You've been good so far," Aeafbran says. "So you can relax for the rest of the night." She takes hold of the string of beads—which will never be fit to be a necklace again—and begins to pull them free. She does it slowly, and Zabete suspects it's because she's being careful but it's still awfully embarrassing, feeling each bead stretch her hole before it slips out. Her face is hot by the time Aeafbran drops the removed beads on the floor.

Even then, Aeafbran doesn't dismiss her back to her quarters. Instead she says, "Come here, then," pulling Zabete toward the bed before she bends to unlace her boots.

"You still want _more_?" Zabete asks weakly. "Radiance."

Aeafbran shrugs. "It gets chilly in these stone prisons at night. You'll keep me warm." She's stripping off her armor; she looks somewhat smaller without it, but no less imposing, with the breadth of her shoulders and the blue tattoos disappearing under her clothes.

Zabete glances from her to the sword belt hanging by the bed. "I could stab you in your sleep, if you keep me here."

Aeafbran laughs like she's genuinely delighted. "If you make a good enough try at it, you might graduate from bedwarmer to apprentice lancer," she says. "So pick your moment carefully, little butterfly."

She climbs into the bed as though it's hers by right, stretching out on sheets far too fine for her. Zabete hesitates for a heartbeat but decides she'd rather go under her own power than be dragged. She slides under the blankets and is unsurprised when Aeafbran pulls her close. "I will," she says softly. "I will pick my moment carefully."

"You see?" Aeafbran grins. "You'd have been wasted as a harem wife."

Zabete closes her eyes. She doesn't need to argue now. She'd rather save her strength to fight.


End file.
